


Trigger

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Age Play, Biting, Conditioning, Diapers, Infantilism, M/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The triggers are easier to see, now, so Rodney wasn't surprised when he came back to his quarters to see John already in them, head hanging, cheeks flushed, hands trembling as they fitfully caressed what he now wore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger

There's oral fixation and then there's just obsession. Rodney's not sure what it says that he's feeding it, giving into it, breathless and so fucking hard it aches. He prays nightly that no one ever knows. There's depravity and then there's being utterly depraved, and Rodney's not quite to the point where he can look at this in the cold light of day, can see the depths to which he's fallen, willfully with eyes wide open.

Around them, the lights grow dimmer. Rodney forces back a hysterical giggle because he knows it's not because of him. It's because of John, favored son, fortunate scion and that's never been a phrase so aptly appropriate.

He shakes his hand, hard, trying to make it stop shaking, then slips a forefinger within the plastic ring. They're getting good at creating their own silicates and Rodney always has an easy explanation that it's for the Athosians, or Dr. Simpson, who brings her baby to work and coos at her while making numbers dance and sing for their amusement. That it happens to be what Rodney's set her working on anyway is a convenient excuse for the whole lab to watch.

But it's not for them that Rodney's made it, that Rodney requisitions this and that and squirrels them away. It's for him. No one knows how deep the damage goes, not even Carson, and Rodney wants to keep it that way. He can handle it, manage it, keep it within boundaries that allows John to function during the day, sometimes even days at a stretch.

The sucking sound intrudes on his thoughts, rhythmic and patterned and for an instant, Rodney can forget that John is a man grown, his chest and face rough with age, his body larger than Rodney's own. He tugs on the pacifier lightly, smiling when John makes a noise and curls up more tightly, head on Rodney's thigh, eyes half-closed. They wouldn't see anything if they were open, anyway, so this is a compromise Rodney is grateful for. Just because he does this doesn't mean he wants to _see_ it.

Releasing the pacifier -- John's hum of contentment cracks the age barrier, as well, but has different responses in Rodney -- he lets his hand slide down John's chest, coming to rest between bent legs. The material is silky, smooth, and entirely due to a perversity Rodney loathes even as much as it excites him, rubbing against something cool and slick, masking the heat within. It isn't _quite_ what it looks like -- that's not necessary, because for all of John's changes, all his difference, certain lessons are unbreakable. Thank god. Rodney's not sure if it would be so hot if John _needs_ it, instead of just wanting it.

"Better?" _Baby_ is out of the question, that one attempt to scarringly horrific that it was days before the shaking night terrors had driven Rodney to just get over his issues and deal with it. There are other things that work just as well, and if Rodney ever meets whoever's left alive of John's family, he's pretty sure it'll take Ronon sitting on him to prevent the death and mayhem that will follow. For all this is something Pegasus born, the patterns were forged from long ago, a need that John's long repressed and when Rodney isn't castigating himself, he's plotting who and how he's going to make them pay for neglect that's not so different from torture.

John hums again, letting his legs spread. "Good," Rodney tells him, letting his thumb trace the outline of John's cock, hot and heavy, dampening the material around it. "That's good, John." He's never been good at dirty-talk and this is the worst kind, so he's always stilted at first. "Did you have a bad day?"

The triggers are easier to see, now, so Rodney wasn't surprised when he came back to his quarters to see John already in them, head hanging, cheeks flushed, hands trembling as they fitfully caressed what he now wore. He shifts, allowing John's head to fall into his lap, John's body stretched out before him, welcoming his touch. John nods, eyes down -- thank god, thank god -- as he arches into Rodney's hand on his cock again, his moan almost a whimper of longing. It was a bad day, and Rodney knows why, knows exactly what's driven him to need this again.

He hates that he, Rodney, doesn't need _anything_ to drive him to this. He wants it, plain and simple.

"That's okay," he says, because cooing is out of the question and it's _him_ John comes to, so the limitations must be okay. Rodney worries about it, frets over it the way he frets over the power-levels of the city, or the safety of his team. He wonders if John ever knows. "I know you'll be a good boy for me, won't you? A very good boy."

The words get easier, the more he says, and even if it's never cooing, never the sickly-sweet that Simpson's baby routinely gets, John seems to appreciate it. He moans again, using his teeth to keep the pacifier when Rodney tries to take it away, and Rodney says, "I thought you were going to be a good boy?" That's enough, and John sulkily releases the toy. "That's better," Rodney says, petting John again, running his fingers underneath fabric to find warm, hidden skin that is always his. "On the pillows, please."

Taking it off is almost as ritualized as putting it on. John lifts his legs, eager and wanting, careful not to look at Rodney directly but still watching every move. He moans again, excited, when Rodney releases the pin, hips jerking uncontrollably. Rodney reacts immediately, smacking John's bottom. It doesn't hurt, it can't, not with Rodney barely using any force and John well protected by the silky material, but it still makes them both jerk, the fabric darker as John's cock strains against it.

Rodney swallows hard. Fuck it's _hot_ , every time, and there are reasons this has always been taboo. "Shh," he says, carefully unwrapping John's hips and cock and buttocks, exposing them to his greedy gaze, while John wriggles only a little bit. They don't use the traditional tools, not for anything but the pacifier, because John _isn't_ for all this is what soothes him the most. It's lotion that doesn't smell powdery or fresh, instead musky sandlewood, and lube that doesn't smell like anything at all, clear gel that John takes with a greedy hiccup, going so far as to pull his knees back towards his chest, making it easier for Rodney.

"Going to be a good boy?" Rodney murmurs, the sound of his voice so distorted that it's unrecognizable in his ears. This isn't him, this isn't _them_ , but he's got three fingers inside of John's body, and John is urgently pushing himself back down, wordless but not soundless. "Are you going to be a very good boy for me?"

"Uh huh." It's as close to words as John will get -- will allow himself? -- like this, and it undoes any control Rodney might have.

"Good boys get rewarded," he whispers, hating himself, hating this galaxy, because he can't give this up. He _won't_ give it up, just slides in as deep as he can, John's body adjusting easily to a familiar intrusion, wanting and waiting, tightening like he's afraid Rodney might vanish, might leave him unfulfilled. Rodney fumbles for the pacifier again, getting it close to John's mouth and closing his eyes to the sight of John mouthing it into position and sucking on it with a sigh of happiness that sends a bolt of heat to Rodney's cock.

They fuck hard and rough, John's back always reddened afterwards, Rodney's back knotted from effort, at odds with the tenderness Rodney tries to maintain before, the absolutely passiveness John achieves far more effortlessly. They're almost brutal, John rocking down as hard as Rodney thrusts up, and the noises they make are hidden, muffled, Rodney burying his head in John's shoulder, John still desperately mouthing the toy he won't let go of.

When Rodney finally comes, he gropes of John's cock saying, "Good boy, good boy," as he strokes and pets, hard enough that it _has_ to hurt, and John tightens unbearably around Rodney's softening cock as he goes utterly still and silent. He stays that way as Rodney cleans up, normally, but it is self-hatred that drives Rodney up and away, hunting for wet rags to wipe both of them clean, hiding the evidence in the compartments only John knows about.

Tonight... tonight he can't do that, still inside of John, panting wetly into his chest, and tonight John's hands come up, circling not around Rodney's neck, the way he sometimes does when they watch movies, when he wants the pacifier Rodney hasn't taken out yet. No, this time it's around Rodney's back, pulling him closer still, hands firm against the sides of his body, and when Rodney forces himself, he looks up to see eyes that are clear and calm, not a single recrimination or fault to be found in them.

Rodney slips out, careful of John's wince, careful not to break the circle of John's arms, then settles against his side so that they both can breathe. After a few moments, John lifts one arm, removing the pacifier and placing it on the beside table, then returning it to Rodney.

The kiss to Rodney's temple is chaste and almost unbearably sweet. It's as close to benediction as Rodney ever wants to come, and he falls asleep easier than he has in months.

When he wakes in the morning, John is still there, naked, their bodies tangled, and when he opens his eyes, he meets Rodney's gaze squarely.


End file.
